Don’t ever assume you have red sauce in the fridge or in the cupboard. Because one day you’ll be staring blankly at a colander full of ricotta and romano stuffed raviolis with nothing to cover them in. Like an asshole.
Opining and whining for the 1/3 bottle of Newman‘s marinara that you threw away only days ago because who the hell can do anything with a third jar of red sauce?
And then Guy Fieri will show up clutching half a bunned hotdog in one paw and the other half a hotdog in his mouth like a chewed-up cigar, belittling you that this is the very reason why you don’t have your own Food Network cooking show.
But then you say, “fuck it, I do what I want” and hurl the pasta raviolis into the deep-well cast-iron, already heated and lubed with Trader Giotto’s olive oil, while cat looks on with confused yet salivating eyes.
“Cat,” you say to her, “we shall go on to the end. We shall cook with growing confidence and growing strength in the air. We shall defend our pastas, whatever the cost may be.”
And then later when you and Maggie are watching the episode of Lost where Hurley jump-starts the VW bus and you guys are eating those lightly seared raviolis sprinkled with salt, pepper, and more cheese Alton Brown may very well show up with the local press and announce you a true culinary hero.